Jodiversary

Boy oh boy, do I ever feel like Dagwood Bumstead or Doug Heffernan or Fred Flintstone. And not because I prepared an enormous multi-decker sandwich from whatever I found in the icebox, engaged in buffoonery while on my delivery route, or took my wife for granite, respectively. But because, like these and many other fictional husbands, and, I’m sure many real live ones, I almost forgot to remember my own anniversary: six years of … this! This … this … this … blog or whatever it is.
Because I am now comfortably settled into the cuddliest and cutest part of my dementia (the part that comes between forgetting what I came into a room for and peeing in my pants on purpose), my ever vigilant and always adorable longtime reader/friend Elena from Madrid saw fit to remind me two days ago. So even though I thanked her privately, I now thank her publicly. Gracias, chica! Y besos! And the rest of you, who neglected to remind me, get to kick yourselves in your collective ass for not being publicly recognized and thanked.
To make up for your neglect, and to get back into my good graces, I would like you to wax rhapsodic about your experience here within my virtual walls and tell me how pretty I am and how, really, you’ve never seen anyone look more gorgeous in black yoga pants and a black V-neck T-shirt (my party outfit du jour).
I love you all.

*Instructions for the dispersing the negative fortune found within a guilt-infested fortune cookie*
1. Remove your hand from within the taughtly stretched denim of your ‘problem’s’ pants.
2. Move the zipper (or rebutton the buttons in ascending order if you are unfortunate enough to be with a ‘problem’ stuck in the acid-washed, big-hair glory days of his misspent youth) in an upwards fashion.
3. With seconds and after some high-pitched whining*, you should find that your ‘problem’ has gone back to normal size and you can get on with your day in an unrestricted fashion.
* High-pitched whining may be of varying lengths and intensities depend on size of initial ‘problem.’ To reduce duration, mention that there is a live sports program currently being broadcast on one of the myriad of cable channels dedicated to said sports programming.
From: The Red China Guide to Taking Over The World: How Guilt Improves Your Fortunes, 4th Edition, copyright 1966, Simon and Schuster Press. All rights reserved. May not be used in whole or in part without prior written authorization of the Communist Party. Fortune Cookie is a registered trademark.

Well gee, the only thing you did was apply the acne cream you bought from Zack and Screech after you saw how well it worked on Charlie “Crater Face” Coburn…
Jodi, Jodi, Jodi: Don’t you know you’ll ALWAYS be our prom queen… Just as long as you continue to kneel behind the gym after school and let us clinically and methodically use your pretty, pretty mouth as our own personal gratification station. I even wont let on that I saw you grind down on the heel of your foot to provide the extra stimulation you needed for your own hedonistic release.

My husband has long wanted to produce a line of Misfortune Cookies. I told him it would be bad karma. I’ll have to punish him tonight for putting that idea out there in the universe and having it impact dear Jodi. Sorry!